


You Could Have Me

by Goddess_of_the_Night



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Declarations Of Love, Drunk Texting, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Please don't let it dissuade you, Sherlock Texting, Texting, The OFC is really minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess_of_the_Night/pseuds/Goddess_of_the_Night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night, while John is away, Sherlock gets drunk and texts him so they can have that heart to heart they've been meaning (avoiding) to have. Also, John's girlfriend looks an awful lot like Sherlock...what's up with that?</p><p>"Your girlfriend. Why does she look like me?"<br/>There are a thousand heart beats before the reply arrives. Why does everything move so unbearably slow when honesty and alcohol are involved?<br/>"She doesn’t," it’s John’s turn to lie.<br/>"John."<br/>John hates that he can hear his name in the exact inflection that Sherlock means it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Could Have Me

**Author's Note:**

> A quick little thing with an unoriginal plot. Terribly sorry.
> 
> Not beta'd or brit-picked, so all errors are my own.

They say that clearing your throat is the hardest part. But that can’t possibly be true because both Sherlock and John have made it that far, but never further.

Sherlock came so close on the tarmac, had gotten to the most important part and just…froze. “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name”, he said instead, unable to vocalize “I rather think that I have always loved you.” It haunts him every day.

But at least Sherlock made it to “Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now…”, John, on the other hand, can only clear his throat and then look at the other man with all of the words in his eyes instead of releasing them from his lips.

Sherlock is one of the most observant people in the world except for when it comes to seeing the emotions in John’s eyes. This is because he tries his damnedest not to look at them, terrified of what he’ll see.

Like now, at this God forsaken birthday gathering for Lestrade. Sherlock is only attending because Molly promised to supply him with a fresh bag of thumbs if he did. His foul mood is caused only by forced human interactions, it certainly has nothing to do with the fact that John is here with his current girlfriend, looking for all the world like he’s on the verge of proposing marriage yet again. Sherlock eyes her with a look of distaste as he fights the ball of jealousy in his gut. He tries very hard not to think about the fact that she looks an awful lot like himself with her dark curly hair, trim physique, and blue-grey eyes.

But she _does_ look like Sherlock, and John is very aware of this fact. John is completely aware of the choice he’s made, because he accepts that he is in love with his best friend; has known it for years. But how is John supposed to love a man who pushes everyone away and thinks it’s a completely reasonable plan to run off on potentially fatal missions without so much as telling John the entire story? He isn’t. He _can’t_. So he dates women who look like him and tries to be satisfied with merely being friends with the lanky git. He doesn’t date men - not because he’s not gay (though he’s technically not) - because Sherlock is the only man he’ll ever love.

“Try not to look like Christmas has been cancelled,” John says to Sherlock as he and Cheryl approach the taller man along the wall.

Sherlock looks at John out of the right corner of his eye before looking back at the crowd in the pub, “You know I don’t particularly enjoy Christmas.”

John chuckles, “True, but this really isn’t _that_ bad a time.”

“Is it not?” He asks with disdain.

“Well, how about you deduce some people to make it fun?” John suggests.

Sherlock grunts, “I’ve already deduced everyone.”

“Well then _I’ll_ deduce and you tell me if I’m right.”

Sherlock turns to look at John after he says this, seeing his smile and fighting one of his own at the sight. He nods to the beer in his hands instead and says with an amused smirk, “You’re drunk.”

“I am not!” He chuckles.

Sherlock’s eyes shine with mirth before he turns away, saying, “You’re an idiot.”

Sherlock and John clearly hear the affection in the familiar statement; the one that Sherlock gave John his first almost-compliment with, and that John later threw back at him with a meaningful stare that clearly portrayed that he was beginning to understand Sherlock’s brain.

“Well _I_ think he’s brilliant,” Cheryl says flirtatiously before pulling John down by his neck to kiss him. Maybe she heard the affection, too, or maybe she’s just too drunk to care.

Sherlock’s stomach drops in an all-too-familiar way. Watching anyone kiss right in front of you is awkward at the best of times, but to see John kiss someone is a special form of torture for the detective. To see him happy with someone else tears him apart a little more each time.

Sherlock wants to say he obviously didn’t mean it negatively; that if _anyone_ thinks John is brilliant that it is certainly Sherlock, not some hussy. Instead of saying anything, he walks away, leaving the pub and returning to Baker Street. John doesn’t come home that night.

A week later, Cheryl talks John in to taking a mini vacation over the weekend. Sherlock deletes where exactly they’re going because he doesn’t want to imagine what they’re doing and the sights they’re seeing. Instead, Sherlock grabs the bottle of scotch from the cabinet on Saturday evening and begins to forget everything. He doesn’t like to drink often, but this time he thinks it’s a necessary evil; anything if it will just stop his mind from dwelling on John and how much he misses him when he’s gone.

Sherlock really doesn’t understand how he let things get this complicated. He doesn’t like people, and he certainly doesn’t _love_ them. But there’s something about John, isn’t there? From the very first day/case/cab ride, John has been different than all the others. He thinks Sherlock is brilliant instead of a freak, and he looks at him with this…admiration that strokes Sherlock’s ego abundantly more than anything else has ever even come close to.

Sherlock slouches in his chair, looking dejectedly in to his glass as he thinks. John clearly cares for him, otherwise he wouldn’t have moved back in to their flat after things went to shit with Mary. And John still looks at him like Sherlock hung the moon, but it’s different now. Guarded. Why would John close himself off to Sherlock in any way as though he doesn’t trust him? All Sherlock has ever tried to do was keep him safe, by whatever means necessary.

**Why does she look like me?**

It’s not until he sees the bubble appear that he realizes he actually sent the text to John.

“Shite,” he mutters in resignation, taking another drink from his glass as his phone drops to his lap.

_Who? Are you on a case?_

The answer arrives surprisingly fast, and Sherlock picks his phone back up quickly. He places his glass securely on the side table with a despondent laugh, shaking his head with a pained smile.

**Yes.**

He lies.

_What case?_

John marks his place and sets his book on his lap before silencing his phone so he doesn’t disturb Cheryl, asleep with her back to him in the bed.

**A case of scotch. Pitch in and join me.**

_A case of…Sherlock, are you drunk?_

**I don’t know, what’s being drunk like?**

_I know you’ve been drunk at least once, so you know._

John’s stag night, before he married his first mistake. Both men wince at the memory and both men wonder if he’s bound to make a second mistake by marrying another. John tries to convince himself that it’s what he’s always wanted, but not so deep down he knows he wants it to be Sherlock if anyone at all - the person he loves more than any other in this world.

**I remember.**

He replies with a purse of his lips, holding back the wave of emotion the memory brings.

_So who was your original question about?_

He’s attempting to steer them back in to normal territory, but he has no idea how off course he’s setting them.

Sherlock breathes deep, taking another drink before powering through.

**Your girlfriend. Why does she look like me?**

There are a thousand heart beats before the reply arrives. Why does everything move so unbearably slow when honesty and alcohol are involved?

_She doesn’t._

It’s John’s turn to lie.

**John.**

John hates that he can hear his name in the exact inflection that Sherlock means it. He sighs heavily, running his hand over his face as he looks again at Cheryl’s back, her dark curls lying akimbo on the pillow. He gets out of bed and gets dressed.

_I need a drink._

He texts, placing his wallet and room key in his jeans pocket, phone still in hand, as he heads downstairs to the lobby bar. He sees the light from his silent phone, alerting him to a response and reads it.

**That was my thinking.**

**You’ll give me an answer once you’ve procured the alcohol?**

John hesitates, breath hitching slightly on each inhale.

_I…yeah. I will._

He approaches the bar and orders a glass of scotch, finding it fitting with Sherlock’s earlier comment. He finds a table off to the side, not meeting the eyes of the few other patrons as he does so.

**Lager?**

John smiles beyond his control, shaking his head slightly.

_Scotch._

Sherlock laughs, his heart swelling at the knowledge that John is truly listening to him.

**Nice of you to finally join me on this case.**

John takes a healthy drink of the liquid before replying.

_It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?_

**Yes, I believe it has.**

There’s silence for a few minutes as John drinks more courage and Sherlock waits for him to finally answer the question.

**So?**

John takes a deep breath to calm himself, but he knows it’s futile.

_Because I find her to be ascetically pleasing to the eye._

**So you find me pleasing to the eye as well?**

_You are aware that dark curly hair and blue-grey eyes aren’t a combination found just in yourself?_

**But she looks like me.**

_No one looks like you._

John sends it before really thinking it through. He can feel the questions becoming deeper, even before they’ve arrived.

**What is that supposed to mean?**

John closes his eyes and lowers his chin to his chest. It is 11:30pm on Saturday, he’s in a beautiful hotel, and he’s set to have possibly _the_ most important conversation of his adult life if only he can get up enough nerve to jump in completely.

_I don’t know, they just don’t._

But John’s not quite carefree yet. He finishes the scotch and waves to the bartender for another, hoping that will help.

Sherlock growls at the evasion, knocking the remainder of his glass back before pouring himself his third glass. For some reason, he wants the cards laid out on the table and damn the consequences!

**Starting my third glass of scotch. I’m having a bit of trouble reading your thoughts through text message.**

_It was your idea to drunk text me in the first place. What is it that you really want to know, Sherlock?_

**Truth or dare?**

John laughs out loud before he can stop himself, apologizing to the other patrons as they look at him curiously.

_We are not playing truth or dare._

~~**But I’m…** ~~

~~**It’ll be easier if…** ~~

**I’ll be less nervous if we play it like a game.**

John’s heart rate increases and he takes another shuddering breath. He barely notices that his hands are shaking as he replies.

_What are you nervous about?_

He places the phone on the table and grabs the glass, admiring the way the light travels through the liquid as he savors another drink.

Sherlock holds his phone in his left hand as the fingertips of his right hand run thoughtfully over his lips while he stares in to the empty fireplace. His leg shakes as he can think of no reason not to push through this honestly.

**Ruining everything.**

_Impossible._

**I think you likely mean improbable. You can’t say definitively that it’s impossible if you’ve yet to hear what I have to say.**

John can’t help but smile. This is a Sherlock he can handle and understand.

_Leave it to you to still be so bloody articulate after two glasses of scotch._

**Obviously.**

**We can take out the dares if you’d like.**

_So you want to play a game of Truth?_

**Yes.**

John drinks again, leaning back in his chair, thinking. Sherlock is absently sipping at his drink as he waits, biting his lower lip between drinks.

_Alright, but I get to ask first._

**Agreed.**

_Why did you text me tonight?_

**Short answer? Alcohol.**

_Long answer?_

**No, I believe it’s my turn to ask a question.**

_Fine, shoot._

**Do you love her?**

It’s not what he meant to ask, it just sort of happened.

_I’ve told her I do._

Sherlock’s brow creases and he’s relatively certain that it’s not the alcohol that makes the statement make no sense.

**That’s not actually an answer to the question.**

_I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that part._

**So?**

John drinks again.

_I think I want to be in love with her._

**But you’re not?**

_No._

Both John and Sherlock stare at the single word, losing track of time. John finally shakes his head and asks his question with a saddened heart.

_Are you lonely?_

Just reading the word sends a wave of it through Sherlock’s very core. He’s been lonely his entire life, he just never realized it until John came in and showed him what it was to have a friend and to love.

**This moment or at this general point in my life?**

He’s stalling, but he doesn’t want to give away more than what John is looking for.

_Both, I guess._

**I’m not lonely when you’re here.**

**I miss you.**

John closes his eyes in a paradoxical combination of sadness and relief. In his mind there is no other option than the truth.

_Good. I miss you, too._

The bartender brings John a third glass of scotch, and he accepts it with a grateful smile. Sherlock is still halfway through his third.

**John?**

_Yes?_

**How can you want her when you know you could have me?**

John’s mouth falls open at the realization. **You could have me** …quite simply, John had no idea that was even an option. He’s been running from his feelings for so long that he assumed that Sherlock “Married to my Work” Holmes was still happily off the market.

John lifts the phone and calls Sherlock, but the other man cuts the call before it even reaches voicemail. He tries again, thinking it was an accident or some cell interference with the same result.

**Please stop calling.**

_Why won’t you pick up?_

There’s a delay as Sherlock finds the proper words.

_Sherlock?_

**I don’t need you to let me down gently over the phone. It’s fine. I never should have said anything.**

**Of course you want her.**

_Sherlock stop! I’m not having this conversation over text message._

**Then go to bed.**

_Answer your phone._

**Goodnight, John.**

_Sherlock!_

Sherlock curls in to a ball in his chair as he stares off in to space, hoping the alcohol consumption will aid him to sleep soon. All he knows is that he just ruined everything by saying anything about it. His wishful deductions had been wrong.

John slams the phone on the table, outraged by the other man’s cowardly retreat. How dare he ask that question and then refuse to say more? John throws back his remaining scotch and waves off the bartender as he tries to offer a fourth. He pays his bill but remains in the bar for another half hour simply thinking.

When he climbs back in to bed Cheryl naturally curls in to him, seeking his warmth. It takes all of his willpower not to push her away.

John and Cheryl return to London early the next day, John claiming that Sherlock was on a case that he needed to pitch in and join him on. She is upset by the news, and by the time the train pulls in to the station, their relationship is done.

Sherlock moves quickly to the couch when he hears John enter the flat, naturally falling in to one of his thinking poses which should lead John to think he’s in his Mind Palace and leave him alone about last night.

Sherlock listens to him remove his coat and shoes, place his bag on the floor, and then senses him stop in front of him.

“I know you’re not in your Mind Palace,” John states, but Sherlock doesn’t move, “your leg is twitching, which it never does when you’re really lost in thought.”

Sherlock sighs deeply and opens his eyes, looking at John with distaste, “I thought it’d be better this way.”

“Not to talk about it?”

“I can accept your rejection just fine without needing to talk it through,” Sherlock belittles, falling to his left side with his face towards the back of the couch, curling in to a huffy ball.

John shakes his head at the ridiculous sight before kneeling next to the couch, “Tell me, Sherlock: what makes you think I’d reject you?” he asks genuinely.

“You didn’t answer my question last night.”

“Because you wouldn’t pick up your phone, then you refused to talk about anything and went to bed. Didn’t really give me an opportunity, did you?”

“What difference would it have made?” He asks scathingly, “You’re still with her; you’ve still _chosen her_.”

John takes a calculated risk and lays his hand on Sherlock’s arm, just above his elbow, before whispering, “No, I _haven’t_.”

Sherlock’s head turns towards him so he’s looking at John out of the side of his right eye, “What?”

John looks him square in the eye as he says, “I broke up with Cheryl.”

His brow furrows, “Why would you do that?”

John searches his eyes and is so hopeful about what he sees reflected back at him, but he’s still on edge, worried about getting it wrong.

“Will you sit?” John asks instead of answering, gesturing towards the couch.

Wordlessly, Sherlock sits up and John sits down in the vacated space. They’re facing each other, both looking like they’re ready to bolt at any second should things take a turn for the worse.

“You’re right,” John starts. He doesn’t mean to stop there, but Sherlock interrupts him before he can continue.

“Of course I am,” he says pompously, “About what?” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

John rolls his eyes and half-heartedly fights a smirk, “She looked like you. They all have recently.”

Sherlock nods, “Still doesn’t tell me why.”

“Can’t you just deduce it?” John half teases, almost hoping Sherlock will take the bait to show his brilliance so that he doesn’t have to put himself out there.

“I…I’m lacking in past experience in regards to this situation,” he admits shyly, “As it stands with my previous knowledge, I can do nothing but hope.”

 **You could have me** echoes in John’s head suddenly, and it’s what he needs to steel himself.

“You are the bravest, kindest, and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing,” John begins, smirking as Sherlock realizes he’s quoting his best man speech back to him, “And over the years I have found myself quite intensely – _apologetically_ – in love with you.”

Sherlock’s mouth drops open slightly as his eyes widen a bit, “You’re in love with me?”

Now that he’s said it, it’s easy to repeat it; it feels as though a weight is lifted from his shoulders, “You know what? Yeah, I am,” he says frankly, sure of himself, “and I’m sorry if that frightens you, but I’m too old to dance around the fact. I love you and I know you’re probably not there yet…”

Sherlock interrupts his rambling, “I love you, too.”

And it stops John short.

“I…are you sure?” he asks skeptically, relatively certain that Sherlock’s never allowed himself to be close enough to anyone to have ever fallen in love.

“From my observations, I am under the impression that love is thinking that the other person is too good for you. It makes the partners want to be better to deserve the love of the other; it helps both parties feel as though they aren’t settling. And you _are_ , John: you are far better than I am, and I think we can both agree that I don’t think that of many people,” he explains, and John laughs, “but above all you have made _me_ better – everyone who knew me before can attest to that – and I want you to continue making me better. If that isn’t love? Then I don’t think I’ll ever know it.”

John is beaming, trying not to laugh more and make Sherlock doubt his declaration, “Of course you think of it logically like that.”

Sherlock looks perplexed, “How do _you_ think of it?”

“That you’re amazing, gorgeous, and I enjoy being around you more than any other person in the world.”

Sherlock seems to consider this and then says seriously, “Oh. Well yes, there is always that.”

John laughs again before grabbing Sherlock’s face in his hands. He searches the younger man’s eyes as he brings their mouths closer and – satisfied by what he sees – finally claims his mouth with his own.

They say that clearing your throat is the hardest part. But that’s just the beginning; it’s the words that come next that are truly the most difficult. The reward, however, can be so worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts via comments, kudos, or constructive criticism! I hope you enjoyed this little work at least a little!
> 
> Also, to give credit where credit is due: "On a case of scotch; pitch in and join me" is a slightly modified version of one of my favorite lines from "The Thin Man"...wonderful movie.
> 
> Thanks again for reading!
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/goddess-of-the-night04) for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)


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